


All is not lost

by KelticBanshee



Series: Seduction Moves 'verse [8]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 20:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelticBanshee/pseuds/KelticBanshee
Summary: 'If you are interested... I've still got that stopwatch.'





	1. Jack

Ianto's words are still spinning in his head, making it impossible to think straight. Or to think at all. 'If you are interested... I've still got that stopwatch.' He tries to swallow but there is a very tight knot in his throat, and he's not entirely sure where it came from. His chair feels utterly uncomfortable, despite decades of use never having pointed that out before. His whole office feels strange and unfamiliar. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes, trying to ignore the world outside, the shiver of anticipation that runs down his spine.

Trust Ianto Jones to be able to unsettle him like this with just a few carefully chosen words, a subtle shift from 'sir' to 'Jack', and the most undecipherable smile on the galaxy. All of that, over Suzie's corpse, and after a day that could have ended so much worse than it did.

The day — the almost disaster that they somehow managed to survive — comes rushing back in. People were killed because he failed to spot the madness brewing inside Suzie, the temptation that resurrection on demand presented to her. They could have lost Gwen, because she still hasn't learnt that sometimes you have to let go and not be all bleeding heart. 

The irony of allowing Gwen to join Torchwood because of how she reminds him of everything that comes with being human, and then wishing her to forget about it when the job requires it, is not lost on him.

A knock on the open door drags him back to here and now. Confident footsteps echo in the half-darkness of the Hub as a familiar shadow moves closer, until Ianto is standing across the desk from him, all prim and proper in that suit of armour of his. He almost jumps in his chair when the stopwatch click resonates like a shot in the near-silence.

"That's ten minutes exactly, sir." There it is again, Ianto's smile. The same one Ianto gave him just a few minutes ago. The one that makes his skin tingle, the one that makes him wonder exactly what is going through Ianto's head. He smiles back, eyes striving to take in every little detail in the dim light.

"Feels more like ten minutes, three seconds." He watches as Ianto offers him the stopwatch, eyes meeting his, and there are quiet questions and not-quite demands that don't ever need words but always get him to explain more than he intended to. He shakes his head and waves a hand, gesturing Ianto to keep it, and watches as the stopwatch disappears into a pocket. It suits Ianto, somehow. "But I was never the one with the accurate internal clock."

He lets out a sigh and swallows, the knot in his throat getting unexplainably tighter as he stands up and walks to the other side of the desk, struggling to figure out what to say now, what to do next. Part of him is still finding it very hard to believe that Ianto is here, that Ianto would _choose_ to be here. Every single moment since Lisa was discovered, since the death threats and the pointing guns at each other, he's half-expected Ianto to walk away from Torchwood, from Cardiff — from him — and never look back. 

Either that, or to turn around and kill him in some new and painful way that only Ianto Jones could devise.

But that never came. Instead came the forgiveness after he let the faeries take Jasmine. The way Ianto held on to him after the Brecon Beacons, all shaky and shivery in the middle of nightmares, and the heartwarming feeling that Ianto actually invited him into his home and into his bed that night. The loyalty, even when the rest of the team question him. The cup of fresh coffee that appears in his hands before he ever has a chance to notice the old one has gone cold.

Not to mention the way Ianto has been picking up some of the hardest parts of the “leader of Torchwood” job description. Like dealing with Toshiko after the incident with Mary, even if he had some words with her once forms were filled. Like dealing with Suzie's corpse and covering up her madness. As if Ianto were trying to make his life that little bit easier, that little bit less mad and hard to bear. 

Something tells him here, now, is a make or break moment. Not in the sense they used the phrase in the Time Agency, no. The Universe will mange to keep going on no matter how this plays out. But his Universe, his world, depends greatly on what happens next. Blood thumps in his ears. Why it is always the quiet ones that have this effect on him, and make it so hard to simply stick to the charm and the flashy smile and hope that everything will end up well, he'll never know.

He's about to reach for the Scotch and the glasses, hoping that would give him a few more minutes to try and decipher Ianto's stony facade, when Ianto closes the space between them in a single step. A hand, all long fingers and heat, settles on his cheek, thumb trailing lightly over his bottom lip, and it takes a lot of effort not to simply shiver and drag Ianto closer. There is a quiet smile and a raised eyebrow and an open invitation all wrapped up in Ianto's expression. He takes a deep breath, but air is just not getting to where it's needed. 

"So, what's the idea with the stopwatch?" Ianto laughs that quiet laugh of his. A puff of hot air hits his lips, setting his whole body on edge. He keeps his eyes on Ianto's, despite the temptation to simply close them and drown in it all and hope that the night will end up in his bed, and not in some dark alley in an obscure part of Cardiff running after a pack of Weevils.

The first touch of lips explodes in his senses, and he feels the need to mentally stamp on the voice in his head that reminds him just how much he's missed Ianto in the past few months. Ianto's hand slowly makes its way to the back of his neck, holding him in place, and he finds himself fighting for control, giving as good as he gets. His own hands make their way to Ianto's waist, slowly up Ianto's chest, shakily undoing buttons as he goes.

Part of him half-expects Ianto to choose that precise moment to exercise a certain kind of revenge. To walk away and leave him panting. But something in the way Ianto's hand roam over his skin, in the way Ianto clings to him, tells him they are — mercifully — past that point. Someday he might get around to figuring out why he always expects the worst of people when it comes to him, why he finds it so hard to understand and accept that others might forgive him, forgive what he knows he had no choice but to do. 

Slowly, carefully, Ianto pushes him around, until the edge of the desk hits the back of his thighs and finds himself perching on it, knees nudged apart when Ianto tries to get closer. There is a moment of frustrated noises as everything seems to get in Ianto's way, as if being this close suddenly weren't close enough. When Ianto's forehead rests on his, hands still trailing over his neck, fingers teasing and sneaking under his collar, he shivers in a way that has nothing to do with cold.

He tilts his head up, trying to bring Ianto into a kiss, and it doesn't take much convincing. He loses track of everything except the touch, the heat, the reassuring presence of Ianto so close. Teeth rake over his lips as Ianto pulls away, barely enough to let him catch his breath. Electricity dances all over his skin as heat builds and all he can do is push the doubts, the questions, the voices at the back of his head and simply feel.

"Don't think we'll be needing it." Ianto's voice is ragged and low and full of something he can't quite put his finger on. Hands tug at his collar and slowly undo buttons all the way down to his belt, then pull at the material to undo the last couple of them. The same hands slide under the shirt, travelling lightly over his vest amidst murmurs about people who insist on wearing too many layers of clothes. Once again, the irony does not escape him. He snorts and tries to push the jacket off Ianto's shoulders, only to get one of those trademark glares as Ianto slowly, deliberately, somehow manages to take it off without pulling away, and proceeds to fold it neatly and lean over him to place it on the desk.

"Ianto..." There is a lot he'd like to say now, to explain, to justify. There is a lot he feels tempted to share with Ianto, secrets he's been carrying on his shoulders for way too long suddenly pushing to come out, confessions he's been denying the need for suddenly needing absolution. Two fingers land lightly on his lips, keeping him quiet.

"Shhhh." Ianto’s voice makes him shiver. He swallows, not wanting to contemplate why, or how, Ianto manages to make him want to say so much. He, the conman, the secret agent, the immortal who has so far somehow managed to hide it all from the world, is suddenly overtaken by the sheer need of lettings things out. "Not now." He nods, slowly, and leaves the ghost of a kiss on those fingertips. Ianto shivers and lets out a throaty moan. "Not tonight." Barely a whisper, voice shaky.

And there they are again, Ianto's hands on his cheeks, sliding down to the back of his neck, to his shoulders. Grounding him, leaving liquid heat behind them, pushing his braces and shirt off. He goes with it and finds his own hands trapped by the material as Ianto slides it down his arms. The wood of his desk digs into his palms, the heat of Ianto's body is overwhelming, even through the clothes they are both still wearing. A hot mouth on his, lips trailing over every inch of exposed skin, nails raking down his flank. Teasing.

With a frustrated growl he manages to extricate his hands from his shirt and pull Ianto closer. The world around him seems not to matter anymore. The tiredness, the guilt, the events of the day, all slowly melt into the background, leaving just him and Ianto and what promises to be a very interesting night ahead. Ianto's hands tug at his belt, impatiently, then stop mid-movement.

He waits. One heartbeat, two, three. Hopes this is not how the night is going to end, with Ianto storming out now.

"Bed?" Barely a whisper in his ear. He finds himself grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, letting out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding. "Though I'm sure that battered old couch out there is much more comfortable than what you call bed..." Ianto's hands haven't moved away, so tantalisingly close. He trails his teeth down Ianto's neck, slowly, and it almost feels like drowning.

"Could always use the sofa..." Ianto snorts at that, and takes a reluctant step away. He can't quite make out Ianto's expression, but it's probably somewhere between 'I cannot believe you just suggested that' and 'maybe we should just try it'. Just like every time he manages to catch Ianto off-balance, to challenge conventions Ianto isn't even aware he's holding on to.

Without a word, Ianto walks around the desk and slithers down the ladder. No person in the Universe should be allowed to make something as trivial as that look so sexy. Period.

He follows, sweaty palms almost slipping from the metal rungs. The thought of getting a proper room, maybe somewhere in the lower levels, crosses his mind. But something tells him no amount of comfort could beat the immediacy of a bed below his office. Not that he uses it much these days.

Though maybe that might change in the near future. It's hard to judge Ianto's intentions and motivations when his brain is not entirely functional.

Thoughts and air leave him the moment his feet touch the ground and Ianto pins him against the ladder, barely giving him enough room to turn around. Metal digs into his back, cold and uncomfortable, but it all seems to vanish the moment Ianto kisses him again, all want and need and a hint of something he still can't quite place.

Hands tug at his belt and this time don't hesitate. Neither do his on Ianto's clothing. There is that moment of nervous snort-giggling when getting rid of his trousers is hindered by the fact that his boots cannot be kicked off. Ianto slowly moves away, pulling him towards the bed and almost throwing him onto it before kneeling at his feet to remove boots and socks and trousers, all of which are left on the floor without ceremony. That should have come as more of a shock than it does. As should the image of Ianto kicking off his own shoes, not caring where they end up.

The suit trousers do still, however, end up hanging neatly from the ladder. This is Ianto, after all.

There is something oddly familiar about the way the bed shifts around him as Ianto straddles him, one knee pressing firmly against each side of him, almost painfully. About the weight on his thighs as Ianto sits back and runs fingertips over his chest, teasing and taunting as the last remnants of clothing are slowly removed and discarded. When Ianto leans down over him, all seeking lips and wandering tongue, he almost loses it, and the annoying voice at the back of his head finally dies out, drowned by way too many sensations concentrated in a single touch, a single caress, a single bite.

There is something oddly familiar about Ianto reaching over him and finding the lube on his tiny bedside table — and, yes, he really needs to redecorate in here, but this is really not the time to be thinking about that. About the shuffling around and almost falling of the bed and clinging on to each other and not wanting to let go. About the way Ianto trails kisses and bites down his chest, mixing pain and pleasure and making him yearn for more.

And there is something entirely new and unexpected and heartwarming about the way Ianto's hand searches for his and fingers end up entwining. Something different about the tension in Ianto's body, now that the conflict of loyalties that he and Lisa used to represent no longer exists, now that Ianto can freely choose to be here, to be doing this. Something unexpected about the way Ianto's hand curls around his cock, all elegant fingers and gentle touches and cold lube, even though it takes him several moments to notice exactly what.

In the half-light of the room, Ianto's face is almost hidden by shadows, but he can still see the smile widen in a way that makes him wonder whether his brain just made a loud 'click' sound when everything finally fell into place. He swallows, eyes fixed on Ianto, and raises an eyebrow. Feels tempted to open his mouth and ask, but something tells him that wouldn't be a good idea.

It all seems to pause when Ianto's hands stop moving over him, one over his chest, the other still around his cock. He cranks up the smile and waits, fingers tracing idle patterns on exposed skin. Ianto's lips move in silent words that don't quite come out, and he recognises the struggle, the nervous swallowing and breathing. He's seen it before, in many lovers. Wanting something but not daring to ask, hoping that a hint and a nod would be enough. He recognises the invisible ties, the weight of social conventions and definitions and labels. He brings a hand to Ianto's cheek, thumb brushing lightly on lips until Ianto leaves a soft kiss on it.

"Are you waiting for me to _ask_?" There is a hint of disbelief despite Ianto's attempt to keep a straight face. He lets out a chuckle and nods, hand sliding to the small of Ianto's back. Ianto's breath hitches, and for a moment he has to wonder if this will work. It's impossible to predict how someone will react when confronted with their own boundaries. Some people will happily take what will feel like a guilty pleasure rather than redefine them, never fully enjoying it, always hiding part of themselves. Others need time to rethink life, the universe and everything to fit with a new view of it all.

"Yep." At that, Ianto laughs, leans down and kisses him, all tongue and teeth and a certain demanding attitude. Lips trail down his neck, making him moan and want and wonder why sex with Ianto always involves so much dancing around each other, even now, with what should be relatively clean air between them. A hot puff of air on his ear, a hand deftly sliding up and down his cock, and he almost loses it.

"Oh, just fuck me already, will you?" Ianto's voice is barely a whisper, but all he needed to hear. Tension seems to ease from Ianto's muscles, the moment when boundaries are redrawn, needs and wants and desires acknowledged and conventions thrown out the window. The small bed creaks under them as they shuffle around until Ianto is lying on his back, pupils blown, lips parted and hands seeking for contact. He dives down for a kiss, hands busy retrieving the lube from Ianto and spreading it over strangely shaky fingers while stray touches set his own skin on fire.

The implicit trust in all of this — in Ianto's almost imperceptible nod, in the way Ianto's hands run through his hair and ramble over his skin, in the way Ianto's eyes stay on him and never waver, never close, never look away — catches him off-balance. He keeps hands and lips on Ianto, teasing and diverting attention as he slides the first finger inside. Ianto tenses for a moment, panting, and digs nails on the back of his neck. He leaves a trail of kisses and bites all over Ianto's chest, and can't help the smile as Ianto lets out a throaty moan and relaxes under him. Something that sounds a lot like 'more' and 'please' escapes Ianto.

"Happy to." His own voice is shaking, and he'd rather not think too much about why. So he just keeps moving down, teasing Ianto in each and every way he can think of, lips moving lightly over hot skin. He tuts loudly when Ianto tries, once again, to push him further down, closer to the hard cock he still hasn't even touched. Ianto just rolls his eyes, but that wicked, inviting smile is still there.

"You're such a... tease." The tremor in Ianto's voice shakes him head to toe. Discovering a new lover, discovering new facets of a lover, is always intense and mind-blowing and worth every ounce of the seduction game required to get to that point. But this... He shakes his head, once again not really wanting to know why Ianto has such an effect on him.

The noises Ianto makes when he finally takes Ianto's cock in his mouth at the same time as he slides a second finger inside are worth every time Ianto made it very clear sex between them would be on Ianto's terms and on Ianto's terms only, under which this — him inside Ianto — was not an option. The way Ianto pushes back on his hand and pulls almost painfully at his hair and digs nails on his scalp almost makes up for all the times he was unceremoniously swatted away, or sent home — metaphorically speaking — after a blow job or a quick romp somewhere in the Archives. Somehow the wait turns sweet when the reward is the look of utter pleasure and surprise on Ianto's face right now.

He makes his way up Ianto's body again, leaving bites in his wake, fingers still slowly moving, preparing, easing. Ianto kisses him the moment he's within reach, hands pulling him closer, one leg wrapped around his own, sticky with sweat, and suddenly one of Ianto's hands is on his cock again, cool lube and gentle touches and a quiet demand of _now_ that is never voiced. He stills for a second, almost as if trying to capture every single aspect of here and now. Ianto looks up at him, eyes dark with want and need, and a hand on the small of his back pulls him insistently down.

He goes with it, replacing fingers with cock and watching the emotions play on Ianto's face. Surprise, surrender, demand. Pleasure touched with a hint of pain and adjusting emotions and feelings. Slowly, he slides in, resisting the urge to move faster than Ianto could accommodate right now. Dives in for a sloppy kiss that somehow ends with Ianto's teeth on his shoulder and a hand tracing reassuring patterns on the small of his back. For a moment, he doesn't move, waiting until Ianto pushes back on him to start moving again, following the rhythm of Ianto's breath.

He almost loses it when Ianto brings a hand to his own cock and starts slowly pumping. The image — the look of sheer and utter abandonment and enjoyment and pleasure — pushes all his buttons in a way nothing — nobody — has for a long time. The room is full of half-muttered encouragement and pleasure and want, of the scent of sweat and sex and...

Ianto comes with a strangled cry, something so _different_ from all the quiet orgasms he's seen so far it makes him wonder just how much Ianto was holding back in those encounters. There is a moment of breathless whispers in his ear before Ianto's hands slide down his back, settle on his ass and simply pull him closer. Pleasure, blinding and unexpected and good courses through him, and he finds himself in Ianto's arms, soft kisses being left on his skin as he struggles to breath and to remember how to think or, more importantly, why thinking is important or even _necessary_. For a long moment, they just lie there, every little caress making him shiver and swallow at how easy it is for Ianto to make him want _more_.

Ianto doesn't say a word, but the contented smile on his face says it all.

"Why?" His brain struggles to make sense of the question when Ianto’s voice breaks the silence, and fails epically at it.

"Why what?" Ianto snorts and somehow makes is sound as if being incapable of coherent thought after a good round of sex only happened to the mighty Captain Jack Harkness. He playfully slaps Ianto's flank as they shuffle around, struggling to find a comfortable position despite sticky wet patches and narrow spaces. It does take some doing to find one in the tiny bed.

"Why was it so important that I asked?" Ianto's voice is barely a whisper, and it carries the weight of years Ianto hasn't lived. He swallows and tries to find a way of explaining the whirlwind of thoughts in his head.

"It's always better if it is you that pushes your own boundaries." Ianto nods, as if that somewhat cryptic explanation made sense. "Why did you change your mind?" Ianto's expression changes, and he can see Ianto search for an answer to give him.

"You always seem to enjoy it." Ianto shrugs, or tries to in the small space of the bed. "I was... curious, I guess."

"And?" He raises an eyebrow. Watches as Ianto sorts through emotions and feelings and shifted boundaries and realities. It turns into a long silence. A very long one. "Oh come on, was it _that_ bad?" He tries to keep it lighthearted, but it sounds strained to his ears.

"No, not bad at all." Another pause. Ianto shifts a bit, and ends up looming over him, still smiling that quiet smile of his. "Different." He runs a finger along Ianto's jaw, tracing outlines and shadows. "Worth exploring in further detail."

Then Ianto kisses him again, and the whole world around him seems to not matter that much anymore. For the first time in a long while, he allows himself to relax, to enjoy the calm of a lover's embrace... and to hope that this will be the first of many such moments.


	2. Ianto

A cramp on his right shoulder wakes Ianto up, and it takes him a few moments to get his bearings and remember where he is.

Jack's room.

His heart skips a beat as last night flashes back into focus, every little detail, every small moment. Images, sensations, feelings flood his mind.

More precisely, Jack's bed.

He swallows, or rather tries to, but the knot in his throat only tightens.

Sex with Jack had been a quick encounter in the depths of the Hub followed by a swift getaway more often than not. The very few times they ever made it to bed he managed to slip away shortly after, finding any random excuse to leave, or simply waiting until Jack fell asleep. 

Though he always suspected Jack just pretended to fall asleep, giving him a chance to sneak away.

Tonight, however, Jack seems to be genuinely asleep, comfortably settled in front of him, head resting on his arm rather than on the pillow. Between that and the fact that he's got his back to the wall, he very much doubts he could move without waking Jack. 

The realisation that he doesn't really want to leave almost knocks the air out of him. 

Okay, yes, he shared Jack's bed that night after the faeries took Jasmine, but that had nothing to do with sex and too much to do with the pain in Jack's eyes and the desperate way Jack had held on to him as soon as he got within reach. Jack looked so lost, so unlike his usual Captain Harkness persona, that he couldn't just walk away and leave Jack to wake up alone.

And there was that night after the cannibals, when he was still shaken to the core — maybe even a bit concussed, after headbutting one of them — and Jack's reassuring presence next to him, in a house full of noises that were still unfamiliar enough to make him jump every so often, and the half-muttered 'you are safe now' that Jack kept repeating every so often were probably the only reasons he managed to get any sleep.

Jack snuggles in his arms, somehow managing to get even closer, and the thought of ‘Jack’ and ‘snuggle’ in the same sentence makes him dizzy. It's cozy and warm even under the light covers, Jack's body warm and pressed against him in the narrow space. His hand slides from Jack's waist to a surprisingly bony hip, fingers idly tracing outlines that are more familiar than he expected.

He only notices his hand has frozen in place when strong fingers lace with his, dragging his hand over Jack's body until it settles over Jack's heart. He swallows, head spinning in a whirlwind of not-even-thoughts that he can't really put into words or made any sense of.

"Morning." Jack's voice is barely a whisper, but it seems to echo in the small room. He can't help but snort. It's hard to tell the time in the half-light of the Hub. It wouldn't be the first time he goes out hoping to catch the shops before they close and finds himself in the middle of a cold Cardiff night. 

Well, probably Torchwood's total disregard for sleeping patterns and work hours has a lot to do with that as well.

"Can't be morning already." He yawns and moves around, trying to find a more comfortable position. Jack holds on to him, body tensing for a moment, as if half expecting him to bolt and disappear. His neck cracks in what should be an alarming way, but it's done that so often recently it does barely register.

"Close enough." There is a hint of something that sounds a lot like sadness in Jack's words. He settles down again and tightens his grip around Jack, trying — in vain — to keep up with the mayhem in his head. Jack seems to slowly relax again, and there is a long moment of silence, of the bed creaking as they both move, getting closer and rearranging limbs and sheets. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Some." A pause, because he wants to say too much that he can't even get his head around, let alone voice. "You really need to get a bigger bed." Jack snorts, then breaks into a laugh. He finds himself joining in.

"Will you stay more often if I get one?" The invitation is clear, as is the chance to opt out. Under his fingers Jack's heart is beating faster. He opens his mouth to speak but the words refuse to come out. What's he supposed to say? He swallows, considering, thoughts spinning way too fast for him to make any sense of them.

"Yeah." Jack let's out a breath and somehow manages to turn around without falling from the narrow bed. A puff of hot air hits his lips and he shivers, despite the heat from Jack's body. A single finger runs down his neck, along his collarbone and his mouth goes suddenly dry. He has to wonder whether Jack can read him like an open book or it's just blind luck that touches always fall where his skin is itching for them. 

"I'll have to look into it." That single wandering finger traces his shoulder and slides down his arm. "So..." There is an implicit question to the word, even if he can't quite figure out what it might be. "Ready for another go?" At that, he has to laugh. The whirlwind in his head is still there, but seems to have receded somewhat.

"I'm game if you are." In the half-darkness of the Hub, Jack smiles. The world outside can wait.


End file.
